


Echoes In Dust

by mirqueen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Classical Music, Drama, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 10:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8282968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirqueen/pseuds/mirqueen
Summary: Minerva McGonagall finds grief in the wake of war difficult to manage, but in attempting to find a meaningful gift near Christmastime, she finds a measure of peace and accepts that sometimes life is too difficult without the support of a friend.





	

Disclaimer: I do not own nor make any profit from _Harry Potter_. It belongs to J.K. Rowling, etc.

A/N: It was meant to be a piece wherein Minerva and Albus enjoy a classical concert, courtesy of Minerva being a good friend and taking Albus to one.

That didn’t happen. (Yet.) Now the war has crept in, the past just didn’t want to stay buried, winter is coming, and family kept popping up everywhere. So here we have it.

> **Chapter 1: Comfort**

“Good evening, Professor McGonagall.”

Such a common greeting from the headmaster, given day after day since the deputy headmistress’ hiring years earlier. The animagus flashed a flicker of a smile over her once-professor’s consistency. Yet still, despite the commonplace value of the phrase, it washed over the black-haired witch with comforting familiarity as the heavy wooden door opened onto the headmaster’s expansive, cluttered office.

“Good evening, Professor Dumbledore,” Minerva responded in kind to her employer, taking no abnormal notice of the many delicate swirling instruments around her as she walked across the stone floor, silver dotting every corner of the tower room that had housed its current headmaster for the past twenty-two years.

“Lemon drop?” he offered expectantly, the glimmer in his eyes assuring the witch he already knew her answer.

“No, thank you,” Minerva let a smile flit across her mouth again.

“I suppose we must manage the lesson plans for next year?” Albus sighed, amusement lacing the sound as he gestured for his deputy to have a seat.

“Yes, of course we must,” Minerva responded, a tinge of good humor leaking through in her droll voice. Taking the proffered chair before Dumbledore’s desk, Minerva settled into its confines gracefully. As per usual, the witch arranged her quills, ink, and blank parchment along the front edge of the dark wooden surface. Albus had always tried keenly to keep it clear for her and today seemed to be a good day.

“Would you mind a bit of music in the background, Minerva?” Albus queried, ever polite despite the fact his deputy had yet to refuse such a request. It was the headmaster’s office, after all.

“Of course not,” the transfiguration mistress answered easily, slipping pertinent papers across to the white-bearded wizard as he waved a hand at the air and the soft sound of violins and oboe filled the room just low enough to not be a nuisance.

The two heads of Hogwarts worked in companionable silence for an indefinite period of time, complacently passing memos and adding footnotes to already-full parchments for the coming semester. After so many years together re-examining students’ portfolios, making sense of contradictory staff requests, and re-evaluating standards both location-based and academic, there was no need for words between them. The deputy headmistress appreciated the opportunity – the peace it offered soothed her scarred soul. As it had every day for the past month.

A month… goodness, had it only been little past a month? It felt like a year.

And it had been a hard year.

No, it had been an _impossible_ year.

An impossible decade, for that matter, Minerva acknowledged grimly. Someone always injured, maimed, murdered… and the evil never ceasing no matter how the many good people died fighting it.

To be able to sit in friendly quiet and work on something so mundane as school lessons, without worrying over the latest attack splashed across the Prophet, who would have to take the next Order mission, which of the children she taught would be killed next…

“Minerva,” Albus’ voice intruded with a strange mixture of affection and sharpness, startling the witch from her dark convolutions like the crack of a whip.

Looking straight up into his worried blue eyes, the transfiguration professor swallowed hard as she realized how far she must have let her thoughts wander. The quill in her hand had fallen to the floor at some point and the salty metallic tang of blood on her tongue informed her she had been gnawing at her lip.

Again.

“I don’t think I need ask what held your thoughts,” Albus spoke understandingly, holding her gaze until the transfiguration mistress felt almost ashamed for letting her thoughts run so loosely, “but you do worry me sometimes, Minerva.”

“I’m sorry,” the witch muttered self-consciously, at last dropping her sight from his. There were times when Albus’ absorbed and knowing gaze became a bit much for a damaged soul to face.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t apologize,” the headmaster murmured with well-buried exasperation. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Of course I haven’t done anything wrong!” Minerva found herself snapping, eyes narrowing at her employer in equal frustration.

“And well you know it!” Albus snapped back far less viscerally, but nonetheless exceedingly agitated.

Keeping her lips firmly sealed against saying something she might regret later, Minerva bent to pick up her quill, dipped it in the inkwell, and returned with intense energy to her paperwork. And if the witch left a few ink spots and scratches on the parchment that might otherwise have been absent, she didn’t bother correcting them.

A few tense moments passed, silence far less comfortable as a piano sonata floated dramatically but mutedly through the atmosphere, the spiraling rise and fall of the notes akin to the intensity between the two professors.

As the piano at last drifted into a less furious tirade, back into the soft backdrop it had been, Albus sighed deep in his chest and stood slowly from his chair. The wizard moved around to take the seat beside Minerva, waiting her out as he had learned to do during her school years. The witch ignored his presence long enough to make both of them uncomfortable; her stubborn pride had always been a bane that way.

The wizard eventually spoke first, as he usually did in such circumstances, “I fear I spoke out of turn. I seem so anxious for everyone to feel at peace after these gruesome years that I sometimes overlook how difficult the road to such an emotion can be. Forgive me, my dear. Seeing your heart so plain in your eyes has never been easy for me, I’m afraid.”

Minerva’s heart softened at the honest confession, as it almost always did where Albus was concerned. Allowing a sigh of her own to wisp into the air between them, the professor made herself look up at the man beside her.

“I’m sorry, Albus,” she made her apologies anew, not for her earlier feelings, but for shutting him out so swiftly. “I can’t seem to stop thinking about it. When I think I’ve reached a peaceful moment, it all leads back to that. All the lives lost… all those students I watched grow from the age of eleven just… gone. Little boys and girls with the fat of their baby days still clinging to their cheeks and hope filling their faces. Laughing and teasing and playing pranks… Dying off one by one until there’s nothing left but echoes in dusty old classrooms.”

No words encroached on Minerva’s tears as they began to flow, not for the first time in the last several years. In the last month alone, with the Potters’ murders and the Longbottoms’ horrific torture so close in Minerva’s mind and heart, there had been few days where she didn’t find herself in tears, the salty moisture making ruins of whatever work she had just completed.

The headmaster responded with an even deeper, sadder sigh, reaching out to lay long fingers atop his deputy’s slender hand where it rested in a tight fist against her knee.

As the moment passed over, Minerva dabbed her drying eyes with her handkerchief, leaving Albus to release her busy hand and pat her knee instead.

“Why don’t we put this aside for tonight?” the wizard suggested gently, offering a kind smile to the witch and waving an absent hand at the blazing fireplace that warded off the chill of December. “Play me in chess for a bit. It always occupies your mind.”

“We really should finish this work,” Minerva denied reluctantly, finally packing away her handkerchief. “We’ll still have to wait on the staff’s responses to any changes and then the textbooks will take at least three weeks to arrive after we’ve finalized everything. It’s only three weeks until Christmas. And after the holiday, the students will be back mid-January; that doesn’t leave us much time.”

Chuckling ever so softly, Dumbledore ducked his head respectfully. “As you say, Professor.”

The term eschewed nothing but endearment and Minerva found a tiny smile tipping the corner of her mouth. Rather than move back to his original seat, the headmaster remained sitting beside his deputy, their work taking off with more peace than before. Minerva’s thoughts tried to revert back to the damaging memories several times, but every time the witch forced them away with steel in her veins until work became her focus once more.

In the middle of reading Pomona’s requests for the next term of herbology, Minerva found herself watching her companion as he read through Sybil’s teaching requests for the coming term. It had taken a great deal of patience for Minerva to even read through the fool woman’s digressions on divination, but after Albus had denied all of Minerva’s sensible suggestions for the subject four terms in a row, she’d informed him in no uncertain terms that he had better read the requests himself.

Now, as he sat there dawdling through the parchment with badly-veiled disinterest, the headmaster absently dotted his fingers on the chair arm to the rhythm of the chamber music Minerva had nearly lost track of in her renewed focus. The more energetic tune wound down after a moment, leading to a slower and deeper cello piece that nonetheless kept Albus’ fingers tapping out the general rhythm.

Tamping down a smile with pursed lips, the transfiguration professor found her mind wandering over this intense love for classical music. While no doubt mostly a product of his upbringing so long ago, the time period in which he’d grown up, Minerva also thought the complicated compositions with so many instruments and so much sentiment had drawn the headmaster’s complex mind like a great mystery to be solved.

“Have you ever attended a concert, Albus?” Minerva wondered curiously, surprising herself with the question as a cello played on soulfully in the background.

“An unusual question for you, my dear,” the headmaster smiled at his deputy, eyebrows shifting in pleasant surprise as he happily set aside Sybil Trelawney’s driveling predictions. “What ever brought up such a subject?”

“Oh, I don’t really know,” the dark-haired witch delicately shrugged her shoulders in reply, at last setting aside quill and parchment to talk with her old friend with congeniality rather than merely professionalism. “Listening to the music just now and… seeing you obviously engrossed in it… It just struck me as something you would enjoy. In some garish, very un-mugglelike outfit, not doubt.”

Chuckling richly at her description, the white-haired wizard tilted his head to the side in amused acceptance of the idea. “I suppose that’s true enough. Alas, however, I have never attended a concert.”

“Never?” Minerva repeated in mild disbelief. After all the years that had passed, to think that a man who had – more than once – indulged a game of tenpin bowling had never had the time or inclination to see a classical performance…

“I should have enjoyed a concert some time ago,” Albus mulled the idea over thoughtfully in his head, staring off into space for a moment, “But then, life always had other plans for me. There are always many more important things to do, I fear.”

Struck with a bout of quietude over this wistful train of thought and Albus’ genuine melancholy over the subject, Minerva found herself hesitantly inquiring, “Would you still _like_ to attend a concert?”

Starting out of his nostalgia with surprised expression, Albus took a moment of thought before answering with slightly pursed lips, “I believe I would, my dear. I believe I would.”

The thought of Albus’ desire to see a live concert didn’t leave Minerva’s mind for several days. Every time they met over the semester’s plans, she heard that music soothe the room and thought how much Albus would love to see and feel the music in person. Having been to one concert in her life, Minerva knew it could be quite an experience for one who so loved the music.

It was this knowledge that drove Minerva to do something she had sworn she never would.

Not ten months earlier, in spite of the war, Malcolm’s eldest daughter married the muggleborn orchestra manager she’d been seeing. The man had always been respectful and generous, having offered everyone in the family the concert tickets he often procured. Minerva always refused charity, as a matter of principle, and neither of the newlyweds had ever been upset by it. The entire family knew ‘Aunt Minerva’ was a stubborn soul.

Now, however, Minerva found she had need of that charity. The only concert specifically for chamber music that she could find within the next month was one that had nearly sold out. Whatever seats remained for sale at the performance, the price of one ticket went far beyond Minerva’s teaching salary or even her savings – and she needed to buy twice that. Had it been any other time of year, Minerva would have waited for another concert at a later date so as to avoid charity, but she was determined to give Albus this experience as a Christmas gift.

Hoping beyond hope that there were two tickets available despite the seeming exclusivity of the event, on Saturday Minerva headed into snow-dusted London in sharp muggle clothing, the plain black pumps she always wore with her robes seeming taller paired with the higher hem of her simple black skirt. Regardless, she wasn’t out for opinions. Tugging her black coat tighter as the snow picked up, Minerva finally ducked into the office where her niece’s husband worked. Frowning at the thought of the trip back, the witch considered turning her skirt into a pair of trousers before she left. She didn’t wear them often, but as muggle clothing went, they were a good sight warmer than nylons and skirts in the winter months.

“Aunt Minerva?”

Turning with a slight start to find her much-shorter niece standing there in denim and a navy turtleneck sweater, the professor flashed a slight smile contrary to her previous discontent.

“Cathleen,” Minerva greeted the young woman, warmth present in her voice as she offered an arm out to her golden-haired niece.

“How wonderful to find you here!” Cathleen smiled more warmly than her aunt was wont to do, hugging the elder woman comfortably. “What are you doing in London?”

“I actually came to see Neil,” the deputy headmistress admitted a bit self-consciously, brushing nonexistent wrinkles from her woolen coat as they broke apart.

“Are you finally going to see a concert?” the well-tanned young woman positively beamed, her accuracy somehow not surprising the black-haired witch. Cathleen had long ago proven she followed in her father’s intuitive footsteps.

“Yes,” Minerva sighed resignedly, not beating around the bush. “Professor Dumbledore is an avid enthusiast of chamber music. Although I’m sure my dear niece has read her cards enough times to know that, haven’t you?”

Looking a mite bit sheepish, Cathleen just shrugged. “You know how I love my chocolate.”

Snorting, Minerva shook her head. “At any rate, Albus recently told me he’s never seen a live performance. He admitted he’s always wanted to and I thought… I don’t know… Perhaps I’m being overly emotional after recent months.”

“Aww, I think it’s just your soft side coming out,” Cathleen teased, nose wrinkling as she laughed at her aunt’s expense.

“Keep that up, young woman, and I’ll turn you into a toad for a week,” Minerva threatened with narrowed eyes, but Cathleen only laughed more.

“You’d never do that,” the blonde responded cheerfully, turning back towards the rear office. “You love us all too much.”

Sighing dryly at the way her relatives so easily disregarded the sternness of her personality, Minerva didn’t reply.

Cathleen returned in moments with her husband, his dark skin contrasting nicely against the crimson button-down shirt he wore. “Good afternoon, Professor.”

“Minerva,” the professor interrupted. “We agreed you are to call me Minerva.”

“Sorry,” the younger man sighed, chuckling at his error. “I don’t think that will ever come naturally. You were my Head of House, after all.”

“Yes, I know, but life changes,” Minerva shook her head.

“It was calling her ‘Professor McGonagall’ that I couldn’t remember,” Cathleen laughed at herself. “I couldn’t ask questions in transfiguration for the longest time.”

“Well, _Minerva_ ,” Neil emphasized intentionally, clearly trying to engrave it in his mind. “What concert were you looking at attending?”

“The Danebridge Chamber Orchestra,” Minerva answered swiftly. “It’s their performance in one week.”

“Oh, I’m afraid I didn’t get any tickets for that one,” the young man responded instantly, regret fusing his voice. “It was a very exclusive affair, as you can probably tell from the ticket prices.”

“Yes, I feared that might be the case,” the elder witch sighed heavily, standing a moment in silent frustration over her complete lack of luck. “Well, I’m sorry for bothering you.”

“You’re never a bother,” Cathleen insisted, Neil nodding along.

“Is there any other concert you might like to at least try?” the wizard offered kindly. “There’s a Beethoven selection in six days and a concert of Rossini two days after that. I’ve more than enough tickets for both.”

“I don’t think that’s quite his style,” Minerva digressed, trying not to let her disappointment show through too badly. “Thank you, though.”

“You’re welcome,” he smiled regretfully. “I wish I’d known a little earlier. If I’d asked before the rush, I might have been able to convince Clive to let two tickets slide past.”

“I really only just thought of it,” the deputy headmistress shrugged politely. “Really, thank you, Neil. I’d better get going, though. I have to purchase an autobiography; Silas is the last of my Christmas shopping, I may as well do it now that I’m out. And I did promise Albus a game of chess this afternoon. It’s nearing one o’clock now.”

“Don’t keep away so long this time,” Cathleen pushed chidingly, to which Minerva rolled her eyes broadly. “Visit just to say hello. Better yet, visit the house. Dad always loves your visits.”

“I enjoy them, too,” the black-haired witch confessed, half-smiling in wistfulness. “I’ll try to work in a visit before Christmas.”

“All right,” Cathleen allowed reluctantly, bringing a light laugh from her aunt as the young woman hugged her in farewell. “I’m glad I got to see you.”

“A mutual sentiment,” Minerva returned more easily as she pulled away. “You two take care.”

“It’s looking nasty out there,” Neil commented with a frown, eyes drawn out of the front windows.

Joining him in glancing outside, Minerva pursed her lips at the gusty snow. “I don’t think I’ll much enjoy this trip. Might I use the bathroom? I’ll need trousers to brave that snow.”

“Shouldn’t you take a cab?” Cathleen considered worriedly.

“Certainly not,” Minerva waved away their concern. “I’ll be all right.”

“The bathroom’s on the left,” Neil explained, pointing to the back of the office.

In short order, Minerva transfigured her skirt into black trousers and replaced her heels with sturdy boots. At times like that she preferred her cloak, already professionally charmed with heat, but she sufficed with applying a charm of her own to the wool coat, adding a scarf and gloves, and moving on her way.

Two and a half hours later, having searched at least ten shops in vain for an autobiography that was much more popular than her nephew knew, Minerva felt absolutely chilled to the bone and her warming charm didn’t seem to be doing much good anymore. After the kind of year they had all experienced, the transfiguration mistress would never have thought winter weather would seem as much of a nuisance. There was absolutely no truth in that statement, however, and the witch cursed her rotten luck for getting stuck in a snow storm out in muggle London. Cathleen had been right – Minerva should have taken a cab.

She’d already gone through nine shops before she realized how foolish she’d been, but she hadn’t believed one more would do much harm. Shaking the thought off, the deputy headmistress decided it didn’t matter anymore. She was already freezing, nagged by a small cough, and walking through the drifting snow; she may as well just get back to the school as quickly as possible.

Finally apparating to the point in Hogsmeade, Minerva rushed through a fresh beating of snow falling in the village. The gates of Hogwarts felt as far as the heavens were from the earth, but after a long slog, Minerva reached them and bustled through as they opened under her touch. Another gaping trudge through the increasing winds left Hogwarts’ deputy headmistress weary and covered in snow as the main doors came into view at last.

Finding one more burst of energy to push open the doors and hurry inside, Minerva let the doors fairly well slam shut behind her and fell back against the sturdy surface in relief. The warmth of the hall tickled the edges of her clothing and face, not nearly enough heat but warm enough to tease her chilled bones with what they craved. Taking in a breath of the heated air, Minerva nearly gagged on a much harsher cough than she expected, sharp in her throat as it made its way up.

This was not what she needed right now.

What she needed right now was a warm bath, hot tea, and fresh clothes. A blanket and a fire blazing in her rooms wouldn’t go amiss either, she admitted to herself wryly. Sighing and repressing a cough at the same time, the professor made her way up to her rooms for at least fresh clothing. Albus would have tea for her and a blazing fire when they met for chess, so that would be enough.

By the time Minerva had dried herself and put on fresh robes, she still hadn’t stopped shivering and her cough had only marginally evened out – although it still hurt her throat. Nevertheless making her way up to Albus’ office and expecting the sensations to go away entirely after a while, the transfiguration professor regretted not taking that bath first.

Albus’ office was empty when she arrived, something Minerva felt very glad for. If he saw her hugging herself and shivering of cold, he would send her straight to Poppy. Or worse – bring Poppy there.

“Minerva, what on earth?” Albus’ voice reached the witch’s clogged ears from his rooms behind the office, the wizard himself suddenly appearing in robes of midnight blue. Seeing her trembling and holding her arms before the witch could stop, Albus continued, “What have you been _doing_ today? What’s wrong?”

“I should think it was obvious,” the deputy headmistress snapped, forced to work around another cough while her employer stepped quickly up beside her, placing warm hands against her face. Minerva could have hit herself for leaning into that warmth very much like her animagus form. A chuckle, worried but no less amused, rumbled through Dumbledore.

“I’m reminded forcibly of cold-weather Quidditch games while you were training,” Albus shook his head at the witch, using his wand to dry her hair and place an additional warming charm on her robes. The shock of extra heat made Minerva shiver anew. “Come. I’ll stoke the fire and get some fresh tea for you.”

Pleasantly surprised to not be forced into an infirmary visit, Minerva did as she was told, before abruptly remembering Poppy had gone to visit her brother for the holiday. Repressing a groan and coming back with a harsh cough, Minerva moaned in discomfort she couldn’t suppress anymore. Albus led her through to his quarters, the fire in his common room rather low, and pushed the witch to the sofa with firm yet gentle hands.

“You’re lucky, I suppose, that Poppy is gone away,” Albus remarked from the fireplace after a moment, looking back at the witch in scolding exasperation while he urged the fire hotter and broader behind the grate. “Unfortunately, I am not going to be any more lenient. I have seen you stuck in the hospital wing far too often to let it happen again. Take that blanket behind you.”

Feeling exactly like her fifth year, coming to study the animagus transformation with Albus after an early morning Quidditch training session, but instead getting babied to death over her icy skin and sniffles, Minerva was all too exhausted now to snap at the man for it.

Minerva made herself turn and tentatively pick up the blue blanket on the back of the sofa. Perhaps it was merely her mind tricking her, but wrapping it around her shoulders did feel slightly warmer. Having settled for the size of the fire, the headmaster turned and eyed Minerva where she sat huddled atypically on his sofa, a cough escaping her unwanted. Humming in disapproval, Albus walked past only to wrap a gray blanket firmly around his former protégé’s arms, then moved on to summoning a house elf for tea and food.

The addition of herbs Minerva did not normally take in her tea clued her into how ill she must seem. The cough didn’t help matters, she concluded unhappily.

“I would send to your rooms and ensure you climb straight under your covers,” Albus commented a bit wryly, “but I don’t think you’re going to fare any better alone than you will under my care. Restlessness doesn’t sit well with you.”

“A well-known fact,” Minerva said, coughing on the tail of her words.

“You sound worse with just that one cough,” Albus commented chidingly as the house elf popped back into the room, a full tray balanced on its spindly arms. “Thank you, Penby.”

Nodding in reply, the elf settled the tray on the table in front of Minerva, then disappeared. Albus immediately arranged a cup of tea with the additional herbs he’d required and offered it to Minerva’s free hand.

“That should help your throat,” Albus remarked hopefully. “I do hope it’s merely the mixture of the heat and the chill working on you, rather than a true illness.”

“Thank you,” the deputy headmistress accepted the tea with gratitude, the warmth seeping into her chilled fingers rapidly. Closing her eyes and inhaling the heavy steam from the cup, Minerva felt her lungs clearing a little. Taking a sip of the hot tea, the black-haired witch smiled slightly in relief as the warmth spread through her and the cough seemed to ease.

Half the cup was gone by the time Minerva opened her eyes again, this time finding Albus watching her in concern. “Better?”

Nodding slightly, Minerva replied, “Much, thank you.”

“Do eat, please,” Albus gestured at the laden tray, full of chicken soup, bread, roast, and vegetables. “I’ll join you, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” the professor responded, a far less murderous cough escaping her throat. Minerva would have reached for the tray, feeling quite hungry after her three hour venture in the winter weather, but she simply didn’t have the willpower to remove her hands from the warmth of her tea cup or her arms from the confines of the two blankets Albus insisted on.

“Here, let me help,” Albus chuckled warmly, hands outstretched to the tray. “A little of each?”

“Yes, please,” the transfiguration mistress answered thankfully.

“What were doing out in that storm?” the headmaster inquired curiously as he ladled soup into a bowl for her. “You usually take greater care against the elements.”

“It was a last minute trip to London,” Minerva half-admitted with another cough, easily refraining from informing him of her original mission to take him to a concert. “My nephew, Silas, wanted a muggle autobiography for Christmas. I couldn’t find it anywhere. The storm hit while I visited my niece, Cathleen, along the way."

“Ah, your two favorite Gryffindors,” Albus recalled slyly, offering the bowl of soup over to Minerva’s table space.

Glaring at the headmaster without taking the soup, Minerva informed him sharply, “I do not play favorites, Albus Dumbledore.”

“I beg your pardon, my dear,” Albus responded smoothly, not a hint of guilt on his face. “I must be mistaken.”

Scowling at the man, Minerva couldn’t suppress a sudden cough, worse than she expected after how the tea had helped her throat a few minutes earlier. With a frown as the discomfort expanded from her throat to the roof of her mouth, the witch took another sip of her still-hot tea.

Albus frowned in concern, setting aside his own tea with a small clink of china on china. “Minerva, are you all right?”

“I don’t…” Minerva tried to answer, but a second hacking cough sounded in her chest, taking the wind out of her and sending a pain in her temples. Nervous of dropping her cup, the professor set her tea down on the table and bent forward to grasp her now-aching forehead.

“I might have to call Poppy back regardless,” Albus frowned more deeply than ever.

“She’s not seen her brother …” Minerva started, another cough racing into her throat before she could finish, “She’s not seen him for two years. Let her be.”

“Minerva,” Albus scolded her quietly, but said nothing else of Poppy Pomfrey. Instead, he said quietly, “I’ll get you a pain-relieving potion.”

Minerva failed to reply, still gripping her forehead. The wizard returned to her not a moment later, holding out the familiar potion in its tiny container. “Here you are. A single dose.”

Preparing herself for the nasty flavor, Minerva accepted the small potion with one hand, the other still massaging her temple. With a quick swallow, Minerva down the potion, shuddering at the disgusting taste, but enthralled with the near-instantaneous easing of her pain.

Half-smiling at her reaction, Albus gestured firmly at the bowl of soup. “Eat some of that. We both know it can do you some good.”

No longer shivering severely, but nonetheless chilled still, Minerva reluctantly reached out from her blankets to grasp the bowl in front of her. It was gloriously warm and the aroma appetizing to her empty stomach. Minerva had no trouble taking spoonfuls of the broth before finally attempting bits of tender chicken. Surprising herself, the transfiguration mistress finished the bowl before Albus had even returned. Her cough again seemed lessened, although after the quick turnaround the first time, Minerva didn’t want to count her eggs just yet.

“That seems to have done even better for you than tea,” Albus suggested, pleased with the results he saw. “Your color is much improved as well.”

“Was I that pale?” Minerva wondered with a raised brow.

“Quite so, my dear professor,” the headmaster admitted honestly, now handing over a plate of roast and vegetables. “I worried you had come down with something the moment I saw you.”

“I didn’t even realize,” the professor confessed quietly, hesitantly accepting the plate of meat and vegetables.

While it smelled the same as always, it also seemed a bit much now. Regardless, Minerva took up her fork and tried a bite of potato. The taste was no less appetizing than the chicken soup and, to her continuing surprise, Minerva polished off those small portions also. Albus had taken to watching her eat, his eyes evidencing all the same surprise Minerva felt. Even on her best days, Minerva didn’t typically eat a hearty meal. She’d never needed to.

“I’m glad to see your appetite is no less,” the white-bearded wizard commented pleasantly. “Perhaps it will pass over after all.”

“I do hope so,” Minerva agreed, far more relaxed with a full stomach and her cough (at least temporarily) restrained.

“Do you feel up to our game of chess?” Albus questioned politely, “If you are to wait this out, you may as well do so with an occupied mind.”

Allowing the corner of her mouth to tip up at the suggestion, Minerva nodded. “I’d enjoy that. Thank you, Albus.”

Nodding happily, the headmaster set about moving their tray and arranging the chess board with all its pieces, finishing by making another cup of fresh, hot tea for Minerva.

Their surprisingly brief game was subdued and quite unmemorable for the younger of the two. Minerva’s residual sickness from being exposed to the elements lingered just deeply enough to unsettle her typical calm, stationary presence, allowing Albus a clear win that his deputy found quite unfortunate.

Lips pursed in quiet frustration as she reviewed the board and pieces that had been left behind, the transfiguration professor couldn’t even determine where she went wrong.

“Stop staring at the board, Minerva,” Albus remarked placidly from his personal desk, where he sat completing a reply to a letter sent from the Minister; the headmaster had set it aside the previous day with claims of a headache. The Minister didn’t make much sense in the letter, as Minerva recalled, and she was vaguely taken aback Albus even intended to answer it without further clarification.

“I don’t understand how I came to be so far off course,” the witch responded irritably as she turned back to the board, repressing a niggling feeling in her chest that might otherwise have become a full-fledged cough. “It’s unlike me.”

“We all have our odd days,” the white-bearded wizard offered with the same placid calm in his cultured voice. “You happen to be having an odd day and a sick one all at once, so I do believe you are exempt from guilt, my dear.”

Sighing and rolling her eyes broadly at Albus’ nonchalance, Minerva crammed her shoulders back into the sofa cushions with distinct agitation, eyeing the chess board with discontent in her gray-green eyes. A chuckle from Albus drew Minerva’s scowling features to the headmaster, who only chuckled more richly upon seeing her expression.

“We will play again in the near future,” the wizard informed her patiently. “And no doubt you will trounce me with great pomp and circumstance.”

“Pomp and circumstance,” Minerva scoffed with a sharp breath, the extremity of her breath hiding another cough that nearly escaped. As it was, the dark-haired woman had to strain to hold in the growing need to cough out loud.

Turning in a sharp movement to eye the witch still sitting on his sofa, Albus frowned slightly and asked, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” came Minerva’s standard response.

Albus no more believed it now than he had the day after James’ and Lily’s funeral; he’d found Minerva practically drowning in her own tears in the graveyard of Godric’s Hollow. ‘Fine’ was not, apparently, an acceptable term to describe crying your heart out over a headstone.

“You are not fine,” Albus stated simply, no nonsense in his tone. Minerva felt once again like a teenager scolded for being reckless in Quidditch. “Your cough is still bothering you. Isn’t it?”

Minerva’s pride and stubbornness stood in the way of real honesty, so she remained silent – that in itself a clear sign Albus stood correct.

Sighing at her frustrating lack of self-preservation under such circumstances, the headmaster hesitated in thought for a number of minutes, leaving Minerva to hunch uncharacteristically in her seat as a cough tried to wind its way up in her throat. Fidgeting in annoyance at the feeling which had begun growing harder to ignore without hot broth and tea to ease it away, the dark-haired witch wondered why her luck seemed so sparse that day.

In the end, the feeling could not be withheld, and with a great huff of frustration, Minerva McGonagall allowed a half-cough to come strangled from her throat after a few hours without its full sting.

At the rough, restrained sound of her returning sickness, Albus turned with a knowing eye for the professor, wordlessly chiding with kindness buried alongside it. Minerva could feel a pampering session waiting in her future, the thought of her adult self being babied almost too much to bear.

“I should have called Poppy the moment I found you in my office,” Albus spoke in the continuing silence, tossing his quill down on the desk agitatedly and turning to face his deputy head-on. “Minerva, I will offer you two choices. The first, I know, is not amenable, but I must concede it to be in your benefit – I will escort you to your rooms and you will get straight into bed; no grading, no letters, no paperwork. Resting and resting _only_.”

Minerva’s immediately wrinkled nose upon hearing that option left Albus repressing a chuckle. “Very well, if that does not suit… The second option, my dear professor, is to call our mediwitch back from visiting Mister Lionel Pomfrey in Yorkshire.”

Caught between two dreadful options, Minerva frowned unhappily as a cough escaped her once again. She knew there wasn’t much else she could do in the face of illness, but neither thought appealed in the slightest, vaguest way.

Poppy would be an unholy terror if Minerva’s pride-inflicted sickness interrupted her rare family visit. And the mediwitch would certainly not leave the school again until Minerva had recovered completely, which most likely meant well into the New Year and far too late for Poppy to have any quality time with her brother and his family. Cringing just slightly at the thought of Poppy Pomfrey’s unfriendly assistance with the way Minerva already felt, the witch guessed it was to her rooms she would go.

The very idea sounded supremely depressing of a sudden. It had been lovely sitting with Albus in peace and comfort, despite her irritating chess loss and the sickness trying to overtake her. The transfiguration mistress shied away from uninterrupted alone time after recent months; if anything would hinder her healing, it was thoughts of all those lost in the war. For that’s what restless isolation would bring her.

Knowing all too well Albus was staring directly at her face as the emotions played out, Minerva withheld the physical expression well enough, but the same tears that had attacked her nearly every single day since Halloween could not be stopped. Keeping the tears locked away behind her eyelids even while her respiratory system began to feel the effects, Minerva spoke without opening her eyes, “You’d better call Poppy, then.”

A sharp inhale was Albus’ first response, one Minerva half-expected in light of her shocking answer.

“You _want_ me to call Poppy?” the headmaster asked incredulously, and Minerva could hear him slump back against his chair in surprise.

Struggling with herself for a moment and practically welcoming a cough that gave her more time to think up a response that wasn’t a complete lie, Minerva finally answered quietly, “That’s the option I choose.”

“Minerva, don’t be belligerent,” Albus scolded, unimpressed, and rose from his chair to cross the room. Minerva coughed more deeply as he approached. “If you deal with your health now, it will be a much lighter and quicker recovery, you know that. I’m not _threatening_ you with Poppy’s ire, I simply know she can have you well in—”

“I don’t want to be alone,” Minerva found herself snapping with absolutely no compunction for her own pride, abandoning all attempts to conceal the coughing she could no longer withhold. “Not with… with thoughts of them in my head.”

Frozen for a moment as the words processed, Albus finally exhaled slowly and settled beside the witch.

“I should have realized it still clung so fiercely,” Albus murmured apologetically. “It’s barely a week ago now that you acknowledged the grief so openly.”

Unable to speak, Minerva coughed instead, letting tears douse her face the same way she had done the previous week. Albus gripped her free hand with the same comfort and understanding as the last emotional episode, giving the witch space to expel her feelings in quiet without judgment.

“Minerva,” the wizard spoke again after a time, still holding her hand easily in his grasp. “I will make you a promise… No Poppy coming back in agitation and no staying in your rooms alone in your grief… But I ask you to stay here and rest. Lay down here and I will sit with you. I’ll talk to you or read to you, if you would like. I would even sing if you felt the desire to hear it, but I warn you – it might sound quite terrible.”

Laughing through tears and the returned cough, Minerva remarked, “You hum well enough.”

“Don’t tease, dear lady,” Albus replied with an amused sigh. “Now, take down that ridiculously uncomfortable hairstyle, slip off your shoes, and lay down on the sofa.”

Minerva sighed with some annoyance at the very babying she had earlier rebuked for herself, but with Albus Dumbledore there was simply no winning sometimes. Dutifully, the black-haired witch removed her black heels and slowly unpinned the bun held high on her head. She even went a step further and removed her emerald green robes so as not to pinch herself with the clasps as she rested.

Albus levitated her loose hair pins, emerald robes, and black pumps all to a proper place in the room while the professor laid down across the cushions. At the last, the venerated wizard bent to rearrange the blankets – covering her legs and stocking-clad feet as he quietly uttered, “Good evening, Professor McGonagall.”

Smiling softly at his care, Minerva gave up on her pride for a short time and gave in to the man she’d trusted with her life well more than half its length of existence.

“Good evening, Professor Dumbledore.”

* * *

 


End file.
